


you've got that swing

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:26:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Spades Slick, and the long-legged dame in pink dancing around your bar is gonna be nothing but danger.  You can feel it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cinnamon Girl

**Author's Note:**

> this'll be randomly updated, it's not a main story of mine (this first part was posted to my tumblr months ago), but i really wanna write more for it so i'm puttin it up here u3u
> 
> basically the premise is an au 1920's type world not unlike the one the crew and felt are originally from. i haven't gotten it all ironed out, but it's your usual turf wars bs you see in any period piece about the 20's so yeah

            The dame in the pink dress dancing up a storm isn't anybody you know, and that only idly intrigues you.  There's absolutely no cautious side-eying or anxious discussions with Boxcars about who the hell this new girl is, because you're not wary about a girl turning up in your joint a few days after you managed to take out Quarters on his way back to the Mansion.

            Actually, no, forget that.  You _are_ wary about this flapping broad in your joint, and you aren't ashamed to admit it.  With Quarters down, the Felt are more likely than ever to react, instead of acting like complete fucking dopes and keeping to themselves.  For all you know, she's the reason they'd been in hiding so long - getting her ready to come in here and start trouble.

            Not that she'd need much tutoring, with legs longer than Main Street and a face dolled up so cleanly that you don't even know if she's wearing makeup or not.  She could cause plenty of trouble without the Felt butting in.

            The band ends the song to rousing applause, and then Boxcars is nudging you and the girl is stumbling through the crowd to the bar.  Her shoes are pinched in one hand and her headache band is starting to droop towards her eyebrows.  You turn on your stool a little and slide one hand under the rim of the bar, feeling out one of your spare knives that you keep stuck under there, just in case.

            "Boy," she says, her voice wavering with liquor, "That's some exercise for you!"  She pushes her band back up her forehead, then leans against the bar near you and asks Boxcars for a drink - something "atmosphere-y," which you don't get at all.  You curl your hand around the handle of your knife.

            "Yeah," you say, "Exercise."

            She's taller than you, just like practically every hellacious she-witch in your life, her knees almost visible.  When she sways back and forth to the band as they play a song dedicated "to all the lovely lovers in the place," you can see a small slit up the side of the skirt, just high enough that you can imagine you've seen a flash of garter belt.

            She's _definitely_ trouble.

            Boxcars serves her up a sidecar; she pays him right off the bat, then she looks at you with curiosity written over every inch of her face.  "What bee's in your bonnet?"

            "Nothing," you say.

            "Okay, I guess."  She takes a bigger swig than you'd have expected from a skinny thing like her, and then grins and says, "Let's dance!"

            You don't want to dance with the devil in pink sent from the Felt, that's for goddamn sure.  But she makes these big puppy dog eyes, the kind most women don't afford you given your reputation and usual sour expression, and you should probably dance with her to make her think her cover hasn't been blown.  That's what Droog would say you should do, at least, and usually if you don't listen to him, you regret it in the end.

            Boxcars doesn't stop you when you sigh and shrug your shoulders, and he doesn't seem to see the threat in the way she grips your wrist, finger on your pulse like she's checking it for later, and the band is picking up in a thrill of brass and drum.

            You know how to dance, sure, but the mile-high gal in front of you is intending to get rug burn on her bare feet with the way she moves.  You don't try to keep up, and she seems too far away to really care.  You're actually pretty sure she's eyeing up some other guy, and you don't know how you feel about that.

            "The name's Roxy!" she shouts over the music.  You're supposed to give your name back, but you don't.  She doesn't seem to care, grinning wide.  You let her let you spin her at one point.

            She leans in and says, "You're pretty handsome!"

            "You're pretty forward," you reply; her laugh is carried away by the ruckus around you, but you can see it plain enough.

            You grudgingly applause when the song ends, if only because the guys know you pay their checks and you gotta keep appearances up.  Roxy wiggles when she claps, and you actually catch a glimpse of garter through that too-high slit in her skirt.  You let her let you come in for another dance.  You have to keep appearances, and the more people seeing you with a broad, the less gossip about you and that horrible Snowman will circulate.  You hope, at least.

            Besides, you gotta figure out what her game is.

            "Haven't seen you here before," you say.

            "Haven't been to this part'a down before," she says.  "Town, I mean, this part'a _town_."

            "Yeah," you say.

            "You're here a lot, huh?" Roxy asks with a wink, and you grab her by the waist and pull her close.  Nobody notices the nonstandard move.

            "I own this place," you say, emphasizing every word as you stare the short distance up to meet her eyes.  She's not _that_ much taller than you.

            She looks surprised.  Genuinely surprised, even, not just faking.  "For real?  Get out!"

            "Yeah," you say again.  You're saying it a lot.  You prefer monosyllabic responses - they get the job done and you don't need to flap your gums about anything.  Unflapped gums are always better.

            "I thought you were just some kinda barstool bum!"

            She doesn't mean any offense but you take it anyway, scowling and letting go of her waist.  She grabs your wrist again, fingers against your pulse, and says, "You dance swell, let's keep goin'."

            You don't give in - until she makes those eyes at you again and you have to relent, joining her for the last half of the dance before the song ends.  You don't clap this time, instead using her brief distraction to slink back towards the bar to get your hat.

            "Hey!"

            The band's picking up and you turn in time to see Roxy heading for you through the equally picking up crowd, and you wish you'd packed an extra knife just for situations like this.

            "Well, I gotta get my coat," she says when she reaches you, "If we're goin' somewhere."

            You think about the flash of garter belt and the long legs and the puppy dog eyes, and you say, "I ought'a punch your pretty lights out, tryin' this malarkey on me."

            "Jeeze," she says, sounding more than a little shocked, "Didn't think you'd be such a sore dancer."  You stare at her and make a note to start carrying your customary sockknife on you even when you're in your own bar.  Finally, she shrugs her shoulders.  "Fine, I'll go, okay?"

            "Yeah, and tell the guys you're workin' for to forget it."

            She gives you a look like she thinks you're crazy, but at least she leaves, and you finally make your way back to the bar.  You don't miss Boxcar's headshake, but you're not gonna call him out on it.  He'll thank you for getting rid of that Felt chick one day.


	2. Gingerbread Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein slick is totally great at playing hard to get and doesn't suck at talking to girls at all

            Boxcars is trying to get your attention.  You're still sour from the way he'd picked you up and physically hauled you out of a confrontation with the Felt, so you don't give him the time of day, keeping your eyes on your band and your customers instead of letting him get on your case.  He waves his hand across the bar from you a few times, then seems to give up, disappearing into the back right around the time Roxy enters your line of sight, coat in hand and shoes on.  You _distinctly_ remember telling her never to come back.

            You've got a knife on you now, so you aren't worried at all when she approaches you, walking so all the beading on her dress sways in time, dodging filled tables and busy waitresses easily as she makes her way to the bar.  Her pace changes as she moves to be in tune with the music.

            "Boy, it sure is busy in here," she says.

            "Thought I told you to amscray," you reply, scowling at her.  She bats her eyelashes at you, big and boldly covered in makeup, and you think she's trying to sass you.  Or trick you.  Something like that.

            "I was hopin' I could apologize and we'd be even-steven."

            She folds her coat in her arms, slowly, like a nervous tick, and you stare at her long fingers and painted nails.

            "Just who do you think you are?" you ask, trying for calm and cool like Droog.  You more or less growl it out.  Roxy stares at you for a long minute, frowning like she's trying to puzzle out a mathematics problem.  You assume she's as terrible at math as she is at pretending not to be a crazy Felt secret weapon.

            "Uh, a payin' patron who thinks the owner's got a nice selection of whiskey right out in the open?"

            You know you have an amazing whiskey collection.  Nothing watered down, nothing fake, no formaldehyde - and expensive.  It's just one of the many things the Felt are dogging you for, but despite the damning coincidence between your suspicion and Roxy's response, you can't help but admire someone with an eye for the finer stuff in life.  You like your women classy, after all.

            "I doubt you've got the cash for a drink like that," you say, but reluctantly you slip aside so she can sit at the bar.  She looks at you, eyes you up and down, then prances forward thoughtlessly, settling onto a stool.  You could have stabbed her.  Nobody here would question you, and if they did - well, you could stab them too.  You really like stabbing people, after all.  It's messier, but you go for the personal touch every time.

            The finer things in life, right?

            Boxcars comes back around from the store room, a keg of watery beer over his shoulder.

            "This broad says she wants some whiskey," you say, putting on as much saccharine, sarcastic pleasantry as possible.  Boxcars raises both brows at you, but you squint a warning and he shrugs his confusion off, looking back to your suspicious bar mate as he puts the keg down.

            "What'll it be," he says, like he's not actually expecting an answer; likely, he's under the same impression that you are.  No way she's able to afford anything on your top shelf.

            Her back straightens, and then she reaches her hand down the front of her dress and pulls out a wad of bills.  You stare because - well, honestly, how could you not have _noticed_ that sitting in her brassiere this whole time - and because she just.  Reached in there like that.  So much for classy women.

            "I'll have a glass of the Macallan you got sittin' there, big fella.  Straight up."

            Boxcars takes the wad of cash from her, thumbs through it, then whistles low and pockets it with a glance in your direction.  Reluctantly, you gesture for him to go ahead, and when he turns his back you look at Roxy.  "Don't got a lot of class for that kind of money."

            "I got just enough to get me by," she responds, raising both eyebrows.  "Besides, it wasn't any classier, starin' at me like that."

            She crosses her legs, one knee bent over the other, her foot tapping in the air, and you can see her garterbelt, even the snaps holding her stocking in place.

            "Not gettin' any classier," she adds in a sing-song voice.  Before you can snap back a response, telling her off for flaunting it if she doesn't want you to stare, Boxcars returns with a lowball glass half full of whiskey.  She takes it with a chirpy little grin and sips at it, closing her eyes briefly before smiling again and twisting on her stool so she can watch the band.

            Boxcars gives you a look.  You stare back, arching an eyebrow.  He raises his eyebrows at you, then glances at Roxy, then back to you.  You tilt your head briefly at her, then furrow your brows and glare at him.  He repeats the whole head-tilting thing, but his look is less suspicious and furrowed than yours.  You narrow your eyes until you're practically squinting at him, and finally he throws up his hands and walks off.

            What a nosy son of a bitch.  You're not even going to consider all the things he just said.  It's ridiculous, is what it is.

            "You definitely have the best whiskey," Roxy says once you've let the silence stretch out to an uncomfortable degree.  "Better'n any other place I've hit up in this town."

            "And where else would that be?"

            You think it's pretty sly of you, asking that, because she probably isn't expecting it, but she just laughs and swallows more whiskey.  "The Old Crow, Bottleneck's, that one place down on 72nd and... 23rd?  Those kinds of places."

            You know all three of them - the last one, Billiards, is a Felt owned joint, but it's not one high on their radar.  They don't consider it a big deal.  Maybe they should, though, if Roxy's visited there.  If she's a part of the Felt, at least.

            "None of those are any good."

            "None of them have anything past water with caramel coloring," she agrees, and then she slugs back the last of her whiskey and stumbles to her feet.  "Hey, mister," she says, "Wanna dance?"

            "Not my thing," you say; no amount of puppy dog eyes are going to get you back on the floor with the girl who carries over twenty dollars in her dress and casually mentions Felt operated bars in your presence.  Nothing to it.

            "You were cuttin' one heckuva rug last time," Roxy says, looking flabbergasted.  She's as coy as one of those saucy picture-show actresses when she adds, "I called you handsome."  As if _that's_ supposed to convince you to dance with her.  What does she think, compliments are currency?

            "Yeah," you say, but she takes it as you saying _yeah, let's dance_ , instead of _yeah, so what?_ like you meant it to be, pulling you off your stool with her hand wrapped around yours, thumb brushing against your pulse.  And - well, the band's playing a song you enjoy, and this blonde piece of work shimmying in front of you just dropped a healthy sum of money on your liquor, so you guess one dance won't kill you.

            The truth of it is that Roxy really isn't as smooth on her feet when she's got shoes on.  She bumps into you a lot, her arms wrapping around you before sliding away as she twists and turns to keep up with you.  Or, you're trying to keep up with her.  You're not sure.  She manages to toe off her shoes at one point, and then she lets you spin her again, and you can't say you aren't impressed by how easy she is to move with on the floor.  You know other broads who couldn't hold a candle.

            The song ends and the crowded bar applauds, and then Roxy's slipping her fingers in between yours, tilting her head.  "Wanna go again?" she asks, just shy of breathlessly.

            You hook an arm around her waist and pull her in.  You think about Boxcars and his ridiculous, outlandish accusations just a few short minutes ago, and you say, "Not my thing."

            She doesn't quite grab at your hand as you slide out and away from her, but she looks put out, and that's pretty much what you're looking for.  You can feel the knife in your sock and you think about taking care of this potentially huge, looming danger right now, but something in Roxy's pink-lipped pout and big doe eyes makes you decide against it.  She's not doing you much harm right now.

            "Aren't you gonna at least gimme a name?" Roxy calls from behind you, the next song picking up and muffling her voice despite how close she is to you.  "C'mon!"

            You guess it's not a secret or anything.  So you say, "Slick," and you turn just in time to see the crowd close up the gap between you and her.  You can't see her face, so you can't gauge her reaction to hearing your name.  Honestly, you don't know if she heard it at all.

            Boxcars raises his eyebrows a couple of times after you make your way back to the barstool you usually sit on, but you staunchly ignore him.  You don't know what you expect, but the fact that you go the rest of the night without so much as spotting Roxy anywhere in the bar or in the crowd of people dancing frustrates you more than you'd like to admit.

            You threaten Boxcars with a knife to the face the twelfth time he waggles his brows at you.  After that, he shuts up and lets you stare at the busy bar in silence.


	3. tulip or turnip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in whisch slick aint jealous and *hic* in which a wtich is bewitchin him

            There are only three times in recent memory where you have been _this_ drunk before.  You're not sure if this is the third time or not, but you _know_ that you are pretty goddamn drunk right now.  You're as sloshed as the whiskey in hand, and if you were less so, you might be worried about making an ass out of yourself.  Thankfully, you're way beyond that point.

            It's a celebration, anyway, because you and Deuce had spent the earlier part of the evening razing Billiards to the ground until it was nothing but ash.  More accurately, you just set off the powder keg the Felt calls their liquor supply, so it hadn't been particularly hard or even that... that, uh, _difficult_.  You'd kind of hoped for a challenge, honestly; something to get your blood really pumping, to give you... you know, something to _do_.  But the fireball had been just as impressive as it would've been with more work, so you don't _really_ mind.  Fire is fire, hard work or not.

            The club is stuffy, so you're sitting on the curb outside it, holding your brown-bagged bottle of Macallan, taking swigs and listening to the rowdy crowd inside.  Droog might've kicked you out for crowing too loud about the whole deal.  You don't remember.

            "This seat taken?" says a voice behind you.  You twist and take your time looking up Roxy's long legs to her face, and you think about how you kicked her out once and rebuked her twice, and yet here she is, _bothering_ you again.  Can't she take a hint?

            "Nah," you say, because technically the seat isn't taken, and she takes it as an invitation instead of just a statement of facts.  You don't offer her your bottle, and she doesn't ask for it.

            "Got pretty loud in there," she says, lifting a cigarette to her lips, using her bared teeth to hold it in place as she pulls a pack of matches from her dress.  Just like the money.  You wonder how much crap she's got stuffed in her brassiere.  "Thought you were the one in charge."

            "I _am_ the one in charge," you snap, and you take a swig so you won't stare at her pursed lips pressing against the end of the cigarette as she lights it.

            She blows out a fine thread of smoke.  "Then why'd you get kicked out of your own bar?"

            "I didn't get kicked out, I _stepped outside_ ," you say, taking another drink.  "Big difference."

            "Oh," she says, smiling, "Sure."

            You hand her the bottle so she won't smile at you any more, and then you hear yourself talking without any way to stop it.  "Bet they're real torn up about it," you say, tipping your hat back on your head, "Bet they're scuttlin' around with their heads cut off, like..."

            You try to remember what runs around with its head cut off.  Turkeys?

            "Like what?" she asks, raising an eyebrow, thrusting the bottle back into your hands after a long gulp that left her wincing.

            "It's a figure of speech," you say.

            "Well, yeah, but it's not _finished_ , is it?"

            You can't remember what you were going to say.  You pretend you're just giving her a hard time, and don't respond.

            "Was it 'cos of me?" she asks after a while.  You tilt your head, looking at her only to see her gaze fixed on her shoes.

            "What would you got to do with it?" you ask, raising one eyebrow, then the other.  Maybe she's about to admit to being part of the Felt.  She certainly looks guilty enough for that kind of admission.  Maybe you should reassure her, tell her you're too drunk to stab her or something.  It'd be a lie, but you don't mind lying.

            "I dunno," she admits finally.  "Nothing, I guess."

            "Nothing you wanna get off your chest?" you try, your voice slipping from rakishly hoarse to unbecomingly raspy.

            "Nope, not really."

            You pass her the liquor bottle again.  She sips at it thoughtfully, then asks, "Is it all a smoldering heap now?"

            "Nothing but ashes," you reply fondly.  "Down to the baseboards."

            "Too bad," she sighs, taking another swig.  "The bartender there was awful cute."

            You yank the bottle away from her with a dour glare, but everything you think about saying sounds really godawful, so you shut your trap and stare at her shoes instead.

            She giggles and bumps her shoulder against yours.  "Careful there, Slick," she says, and you don't know if she remembers it's your name or if she's just using it like a pet name.  Or a nickname.  A nickname, definitely.  "A girl might get the impression you're a lil' bit jealous."

            You are too drunk for this.  You don't say that, though.  You don't say much of anything; you give her a significantly unpleasant look, but you don't know if she really gets it.

            "I thought maybe, it was 'cos I'd thrown the name out there so casually," she says, staring at the glowing ember at the end of her now very short cigarette.  "Maybe you thought I was a... I dunno, a _spy_ or something."

            You look at her.  She's frowning at her cigarette; her nose is flushed, her eye makeup smudged and the loose wave in her hair full of flyaways.  If she's a secret Felt weapon, she's _damned_ good at fooling you.  "Don't be a dope."

            "See?  Everyone's always tellin' me I have a wild imagination.  I guess I gotta start listening to 'em."  She puffs on her cigarette and then gently stubs it out on the curb.  "Y'know," she says, "You should be more careful about what you say around big groups of people."

            You frown sharply at her and narrow your eyes to focus past the hazy alcoholic blur everything's taking on.  "Are you tryin' to question me in my own venue?" you ask, your voice slip-sliding from unfortunately husky to downright growling and then back again.  You don't mind it.  You'd probably feel more outraged at her blatant judgment of your personal business if you weren't so hammered; as it is, all you can feel is a strange concern over the fact that someone is trying to care about you.  You are _too drunk_ for any of this.

            "Just giving you some friendly advice is all," she replies, clicking her heels against the asphalt.  "Up to you whether you listen or not."

            She gets up; you don't.  You're not really sure you _can_ get up, even if you wanted to.  You crane your neck to look up at her, this time not taking so much stock of her long legs and short skirt.  "Who said we're anywhere near _friendly_ , you and I?"

            "Well," she drawls, seeming to mull it over, and for a very dizzy second you imagine just reaching out for her leg.  It's not like you want her to stay - more like, you don't know if you want to hear what she's got to say.  You're drunk enough that your potential innuendos have more innuendos built right in.  "I don't dance with just _any_ body, y'know."

            "Oh," you say.  You don't think that's what you were expecting.

            "So, take it as friendly advice.  Or just plain old advice, if you wanna.  You got my money either way."

            She taps a finger just above the neckline of her pretty plungy dress, the skin there less flushed than her cheeks but still blushed, and smiles at you.  You aren't drunk enough to tell her to stay outside, but you wish you were.  "Spend it all in one place," you tell her.

            "Think you're missin' a word there," she replies, her smile showing off her teeth as she flashes it in your direction before making her way back inside the club.

            You knock the bagged bottle against your knee a few times, but you don't wind up following her in.


End file.
